Band aid covers the bullet hole
by Estherthomas
Summary: "Love is complicated, yet so simple. It's essentially a heart beating faster for someone, despite fear, loneliness, deception, despair, pain, betrayal, insecurity, abandon, or even death. It's both an anchor in the tempest, and the tempest itself. You can be tough as a rock or fragile as a bird, it will leave you wounded and blissful all the same."


They have been everywhere. They had shared a cup of wine with Alexander the Great in Bactria. They'd ridden on the back of elephants, harnessed with saddles adorned with gems, silk and gold. He'd taken her to a kabuki representation in Japan where they had sailed on a pirogue among a sea of iridescent lotus flowers and lit by lanterns made of papier-mâché. They had found themselves on the _Santa Maria_ with Christopher Colombus himself. At night, they maped the sky with an astrolabe, giving improbable names to the myriad of stars that spread across the dark canevas. The sound of her laugh resonated in his hearts for days. But all those adventures were nothing compared to Orisiana.

It's a small moon in a distant corner of the Bellirian system. The Doctor has promised Amy some utterly breathtaking landscapes and a wonderful dinner in a small restaurant on the coast. That latter was actually part of the negociations; Amy really drove a hard bargain. It was either that or having to endure Michelangelo's laments about his conditions of work in the Sistine Chapel again.

It would seem like a pretty romantic trip to the eyes of a stranger but he is actually more ecstatic about the landscapes than about the dinner. Well, yes... but not really. He is a bit excited too; something to do with his limbic system.

* * *

Shadows are dancing behind his eyelids, drawing wild curves like a Balinese dancer. They are lying on the grass, so close to each other than he can feel the fabric of her shirt against his skin. She is wearing the red one, his favorite. She might be asleep because her breath is really quiet and her eyes are sealed, like the doors to a delicious secret world of her own. What are her dreams made of ? Does she dream about home ? He wonders if she fantizes about him or about someone else; someone good and tender… and human. He himself has dreamt about a lot of things : cities made of coral, trees that can walk, tap-dancing spiders, dinosaurs on a spaceship, one night with the delicious Ninon de Lenclos, fishes in the sky, a room full of fezzes or the ancient city of Atlantis. And the most painful one : of being human.

She whispers something he doesn't understand. Her hair falls onto her cheek like a waterfall, winding around the small islands formed by her freckles. He had tasted the smoothness of her lips once; but she had taken him by surprise. It was unexpected because he had been blinded by the memory of her as a child. She still was Amelia Pond, the little Scottish girl in the English village. She was his sanctuary, his promise of redemption. It was a time when he had not yet failed her. He had only known Amelia for a few hours, while he has known Amy since the day he was born. His skin knows hers, and it shivers when they meet accidentally, which happens more often than not. Near the console, in the corridors, passing through the doors of the TARDIS, on the grass in that exact moment.

He is clever; he has solved some of the greatest mysteries of the universe, but he has not grasped the complexity and the extravagance of the human heart yet. Perhaps he never will.

It is exciting, but extremely frustrating.

Amy. To be with her is exhilarating, and a bit scary too. It has always been like this, from the night he met her. She challenges him, questions him. Most of all, she _knows_ him. It had never occured to him that he was not asking himself the right question or, more likely, that he hadn't want to. He has made a science of evasion.

* * *

She is now playing with a paper kite that flies across the sky with a sense of impertinent freedom, cutting the air like a knife and defying the planet's gravity, trying to escape. Feelings are rushing in like tidal waves, overwhelming him with both sadness and delight. His hearts bleed while she is running after this impalpable bird, aching for a happiness he could have had but will never capture.

Wandering. Time and space. Everything that ever happened or ever will. It's exciting, for sure. But what about that whole _carpe diem_ stuff ? He is there with the person he loves the most in the entire universe and he feels tied up. Maybe it's time to stop running, to stop chasing dreams that vanish abruptly as soon as he tries to reach out for them. He just wants to belong, to stop pining.

He has built walls around him, walls that have gotten higher and higher through the years, the centuries, slowly transforming from shelter to prison. He is aware that he can't choose when it comes to the devil and the deep blue sea. He can't help himself. But Amy is still there with him. Maybe it's not too late to do the right thing. Sending her back to home would be wiser, safer. It would be the right thing to do for her. But not for him. Unfortunately, selfishness is his middle name.

And then, there is that terrible humany-wumany thing : jealousy. It's all grumpy and fuzzy. It drives him at the wall and, he marvels at the intensity of the feeling. As for the other thing, the big four letters thing, he does all he can to ignore it. It's quite difficult though; it gives you butterflies in your stomach that are all fluttering fluttery things, and then, there is the heartaches. Oh, what a loveable lovely feeling : love.

At night, when she is asleep, he writes poems about her, every detail of her delicate features, his memory turning into a magnifying glass : her little nose, her exquisite lips, the dimness of the nape of her neck, the unending legs, the shiny red of her hair. He is madly in love with the latter. He has always thought that it had some haptic quality to it. It is like it has become a metonymy for her whole person; bright, unique, a bit provocative but more likely indomptable, and obviously Scottish. He considers it as a volatile entity, capable of intoxicating you whilst it leaves scars on your skin, like some obscure tribal painting. You can plunge into it but you would have to be careful not to drown. And he is not sure to be still afloat after all that time.

It's like a siren song, calling you, enslaving you, baring your soul. It has come to him that they are just some pieces of a whole they can't understand, that they can't fully embrace. He is so old now, so indifferent to the small pleasures of life. He feels like a toy soldier that has been forgotten on the windowsill or a porcelain chipped vase covered with dust. And Amy is that ray of light that caresses the surface, and that gives them the breath of life. Suddenly, they come to life; the tiny little soldier dreams about his fiancée, and the vase gets the splendour of a Tang dynasty artefact.

He knew then that she was special. It's a love beyond definition, a love that doesn't fit into categories or boxes because it is so much larger than him, so much larger than them, even larger than life.

* * *

He has chosen one of the most beautiful restaurants of Salina, the small city near the bay. It sits enthroned atop a high cliff and one can see the reflections of the moon on the water. At their feet, waves from the open sea beat against the reefs. The air is embaumé; rosemary, sea spray and lavender mingle. They have dressed for the occasion. He's put on a black suit he keeps in a corner of his wardrobe, nothing to fancy though. But as far as Amy is concerned, sobriety has never been an option. She is wearing a long, halterneck, burgundy silk dress that underlines the soft curves of her shoulders as well as the perfection of her shape. The red waterfall of her hair is still there, wild and colorful, similar to a brushstroke, a red stripe against the dark canevas of the sky.

She has ordered some lobsters, supplemented with rice flavored with cilantro and saffron. She says that she is really happy and thankful that he agreed on the dinner the wine is coloring her cheeks with red, like wild flowers in the early summer. He mumbles something that sounds like a 'You're welcome' as he tries to prevent his hands from trembling. If she notices his emotion, she hides it well. She is babbling about the time she got drunk when she was fiveteen and how aunt Sharon had to come to pick her up at the police station. He slowly loses track of the conversation and only catches 'my imaginary friend' along the way. A shy smile appears on his lips and he finally finds the courage to look at her. Her eyes are glimmering and when she smiles at him, he thinks that it's time to surrender.

* * *

When he throws the Pandorica into the heart of the explosion, when he is there all alone at the end of all things, her face is all he could see. It makes him strong and brave. It gives him the strength to do what he has to, for her, for Amy Pond. Magnificent, mad and impossible Amy Pond. No matter how long he had left, or how much the distance between the two of them keeps growing, he will always hang on to her, like sailors lost at sea on the polar star. Love is complicated, yet so simple. It's essentially a heart beating faster for someone, despite fear, loneliness, deception, despair, pain, betrayal, insecurity, abandon, or even death. It's both an anchor in the tempest, and the tempest itself. You can be tough as a rock or fragile as a bird, it will leave you wounded and blissful all the same. Love doesn't care about age, species, or impossibilities, it doesn't mind limits or delusion it just is. That's the problem.

* * *

The question resonates in his ears, '_Are you in love with someone ?'_ She asks in a casual manner, like she would have asked him if he loved mushrooms. He often wonders how she can act that way; so fiercely, as if emotions were not that terrible sisyphean curse, as if they were not an exquisite poison that people drink to the dregs. Hasn't she heard of poor Orpheus who sang his loss across all the ancient lands, or about Dido who sacrificed her life because she could not handle the betrayal of her beloved Aeneas ? How can she be so reckless about something so tragic and dangerous as love ? Sometimes, he envies her. But then, he sees that little sad spark in the corner of her eye, and he remembers that she is as fragile as he is. She is just better at hiding it. The girl who waited all night in her garden. The girl who didn't make sense. How could he resist ?

Joe said that there was a room for everyone. Even for him. Even for the Doctor.

_« Of course. Who else ? »_

It's the only thing he manages to say as he closes the door on a small figure, left alone on a windowsill.


End file.
